


Then We Burst Forth, We Float in Time and Space

by whatthedubbs



Series: O My Brave Soul, O Farther Sail [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amazon!Jason Todd, But he's not actively trying to be terrible, Gen, IDK if this should have a warning for violence of character death, Jason becomes Diana's literal son, Jason dies a second time, Lots of people are angry with Bruce Wayne for a variety of good reasons, Vignettes, don't worrry he gets better, overextended egg metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-31 07:03:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthedubbs/pseuds/whatthedubbs
Summary: The Red Hood doesn't escape his confrontation with Batman; or the Joker's vengeance.  Jason Todd is executed in his cell in Arkham, murdered twice by the same hand.Diana is not amused.  Diana finds Bruce's oversight unacceptable.Diana does something about it.Perhaps it's time for him to be HER son.





	Then We Burst Forth, We Float in Time and Space

**Author's Note:**

> This entire thing exists because the idea of Jason getting swept away by Wonder Woman instead of becoming Batman's punching bag was too appealing to pass up. I'm playing sixteen thousand different kinds of loose with the timeline here, so I've got no idea how old anyone is here (except for Damian, who must be under age 10 as he does not appear in this).
> 
> I'm using an old origin story for Wonder Woman, where the queen of Themyscira made her from clay to be her daughter. I think in current canon she's a demigoddess of some sort. IDK, the older origin worked better for reasons.
> 
> There may be a follow up to this. I've got a number of bits that I cut from this because they made it drag or introduced plot lines that I didn't feel like concluding, so those might be flushed out later. Who knows.
> 
> Title is from Walt Whitman's 'Toward the Unknown Region'

Jason lies splayed out on the street. Behind him the warehouse is a pile of flaming rubble. Across the street he can see the crumpled form of the unconscious Joker; already cuffed for the police to find. Closer still is the black mass of a man who was once his father (_not anymore. Never again_). His vision is fading even as the clink of metal on metal announces Bruce’s decision.

\--

Jason goes to Arkham in the same van as his murderer. He finds this out much later. 

\--

They try to keep him sedated, but League training and the lingering effects of the Lazarus pit deny him any escape from his reality. As much as he fears the hook on the end of the needle, he thinks it might be worth it to not be aware of that _laugh_ at all times.

\--

Jason Todd spends all of three weeks a resident of Arkham before he’s murdered for the second time. Barely three weeks before the Joker gets bored of wasting taxpayer money and decides he wants some new toys to play with.  
  
Jason made him look bad in front of his men. Jason took Batman’s attention from him.   
  
Jason would be mildly offended that he doesn’t even get a twisted metaphor to accompany his second exit; but the Joker’s first shot obliterates his face so it’s not like he’s around to complain.

\--

The Joker escapes. Batman pursues. The cycle repeats; as if Jason had never existed. It takes three days for his body to be discovered behind the water heaters in the basement of block D.

\--

Bruce’s head makes a completely unsatisfying ‘thud’ when it rebounds off the metal walls of the watchtower. Diana would hit him again but Clark stops her before she can reduce his face to even a fraction of the bloody mess he allowed his son’s to become.  
  
“He made his decision,” Bruce continues, as if her strike were nothing more than a momentary distraction. She snarls in a way she has not since she was much younger and angrier and new to the world of Men. “The man under that mask was no longer my son.”  
  
_“Liar!”_ Diana bellows. “I have _seen_ the records of his deeds. Do not try to conceal the truth of them from me with words. A warrior slain deserves to be _avenged!_ How can his spirit cross the Styx and find rest in the afterlife if the man now twice his murderer remains unpunished?” She seethes with the injustice of it. “You denied him that peace once and by some miracle of the gods he was returned to you; only to be rejected and denied a second time!”  
  
Bruce doesn’t even flinch at her words. It disgusts her. Without another word she breaks from Clark’s hold and turns on her heel toward the Zeta tubes.   
  
“I have nothing else to say to you, _Batman_,” she grates as she enters her destination into the console with more force than necessary. “I shall return when I am fit to be in the same room with you without wanting to paint it’s walls with your blood.

\--

Queen Hippolyta is waiting for her when she alights on the shores of Themyscira. Diana falls into her embrace with the weariness of one thrice her age. For one afternoon and evening she allows herself to be comforted, as she had the first time Bruce’s son (her own son) was taken from her. Now again she takes the comfort offered by her mother’s strong arms and subtle perfume. Allows the tears not meant for the world of men to flow. Her adoptive sister joins her after a time; her own grief held in the clench of her fists and the squareness of her shoulders.   
  
And in the morning Queen Hippolyta of Themyscira hands Diana a scroll and bids them both go the banks of the Styx.

\--

He is waiting for them there when they arrive; standing at the river’s verge watching the ferryman perform his duties. The kevlar and leather and denim of his usual outfit is gone; replaced by a simple drape of white linen. His feet are bare in the sand of the shore; his exposed skin free of the patchwork of scars and bullet holes he had been buried with.  
  
_Diana knows each missing mark because she forced herself to sit down and read the full report of his death and the autopsy report. She took his father’s duty into her hands and committed to memory this last part of him. The part Bruce is so anxious to pretend was false and perverse._  
  
_Diana aches and seethes again at the reminder that she has not been allowed the chance to attend either of his funerals._  
  
He looks up as they approach, eyes sad and resigned.  
  
“I wondered if I would see you one more time before I go.”  
  
His voice is so much deeper than she remembers it at fifteen. Yet another part of her breaks open at the thought of all the time that has been stolen from them.   
  
“As if we could ever let you go alone,” Donna chokes before she throws herself upon him; arms squeezing tight enough to lift him off his feet.  
  
“As if,” Diana agrees, stepping closer to present him with the scroll her mother had pressed into her hand as they left the palace, “we would ever let you go in the first place.”

\--

_The gods of Mount Olympus see fit to grant Queen Hippolyta of Themyscira’s petition, and release to her the spirit that was once Jason Todd from the world of Men; to be made anew in the clays of Themyscira or to pass over the Styx as he sees fit._

\--

Jason has been waiting on the banks of the Styx for a month before Wonder Woman comes for him. He’s got his coins for the ferryman and everything (although he’s got no idea where the damn things came from. He somehow doubts Grecian burial rituals are observed by Arkham’s funeral staff). He’s just… not ready to go yet.   
  
Apparently there’s people he knew who aren’t ready for him to go either.

\--

Donna waits with him by the riverbank while Diana goes back to talk to her mother. He missed her (missed all of them so much it was a physical pain in his chest until the Joker caved his face in); wishes he’d come back sane enough to just go to them instead of Bruce.  
  
That’s what makes him decide not to go with the ferryman; ultimately. The people that Talia and Bruce and the Joker stole from him last time.  
  
Not being crazy or scarred sounds pretty good too. Donna snorts a laugh at him when he asks whether he’s gonna come back a woman. Apparently he’s not badass enough for that.  
  
He guesses that’s okay. He’s heard bras are terrible.

\--

Her son’s new body is tall and perfect as it should have been; strong and powerful as her own. Jason’s laugh is like salve upon the raw edges of her heart when he bangs his head agains the ceiling on his first flight. Diana smiles as she watches him spar with Donna in the courtyard satisfied that Bruce can never lay claim to her son again. He is safe.

\--

Jason spends a year on Themyscira before he approaches Diana about visiting the world of Men. Diana would keep him by her side forever if she could; but her son will wither if not allowed to grow. She is surprised he waited this long to ask.  
  
“It’s Alfred’s birthday,” he explains when she asks. “Bruce might be a total jackass, and Dick’s a sanctimonious ass, but Alfred always did right by me. Made me feel safe when I was sure B was gonna kick me back to the gutter the first time my foot slipped.” He shrugged. “Woulda’ paid him a visit before if Bruce hadn’t fucked it all up.”  
  
Diana smiles at the way his eyes go soft around the edges at the mention of his grandfather. 

\--

Bruce is out for the night with Tim, and Dick is busy with the Titans. Alfred sits alone in his domain, oven making quiet ‘chink’ sounds as it cools. A pot of earl grey and the teacup Master Jason bought him for his first birthday as his grandfather rest on the table before him.  
  
Wayne manor is silent, save for the off creak of settling rafters and cooling walls in the evening chill.   
  
There’s a tap at the kitchen door.  
  
No one should be calling at the manor this late at night, especially not at the kitchen door. And on my birthday, too, Alfred sighs as he retrieves the taser from behind the breadbox and goes to answer the door.   
  
He drops it when he sees the face on the other side of the glass.  
  
“Happy birthday, Alfie.

\--

“Sorry it took me so long to visit.”  
  
Jason _(his Jason. Alive and unscarred and seemingly happy)_ gets up to pour him another cup of tea. Alfred allows it because he’s not sure he’s quite over the shock of finding his grandson is alive. And apparently an _Amazon_ now, of all things.   
  
“I would have come earlier; but I couldn’t exactly swing by last time I was in town.” He ducks his head, embarrassed. “Kinda figured B wouldn’t be too happy about the Red Hood droppin’ in for tea.”  
  
Alfred chokes at his words. _As the Red Hood? But Master Bruce…_  
  
Jason is patting him gently on the back and taking the cup and saucer from his trembling fingers before he can manage to drop them.   
  
“He didn’t tell you, did he.” There is none of the anger Alfred expects in Jason’t voice; only a tired kind of resignation.  
  
“No, Master Jason; he did not.” And Alfred will be having _words_ with Master Bruce when he returns from patrol. It would be one thing if Master Bruce had only suspected; but Alfred does not believe for one moment that Batman allows the Red Hood to be taken to Arkham without confirming an identity.   
  
“Figures.” Jason sighs. “I might have tried to rip him limb from limb for that, once. The way I got brought back the first time didn’t do my anger issues any favors.”  
  
“The first time, Master Jason?”

\--

Jason leaves Wayne Manor with a tin of Alfred-cookies to share with Donna and Diana. The Gotham skyline in the distance is familiar and inviting until the beam of the bat signal lances through the darkness and Jason is reminded of how _done_ with this place he is. His murderer is somewhere down there and he finds that he doesn’t really care anymore.  
  
Jason turns that thought around in his mind. _He doesn’t matter to me anymore._ Jason could say the word and Diana would end the man tomorrow, _tonight_. It would be so _easy_ it’s almost not worth the effort. Jason huffs a laugh as he stands on the dew-wet grass and smells the sweet and familiar fragrance of Alfred’s carefully tended roses.   
  
The Joker can’t touch him anymore. Guns can’t even bruise him. Acid runs off his skin like water. He can drink poisons like wine. Magic can bind him, but he’s been on Klarion’s good side since he was seven and there aren’t any other users powerful enough to touch him who would work with a child murderer.   
  
Jason could kill the man if he wanted to, and there isn’t a thing the GCPD could do to him. Being Diana’s son comes with the sort of diplomatic immunity that Garzonas could only _dream_ of.   
  
With Bruce, Jason always knew that there would be no permanent solution. The Joker would never not be breathing down his neck. Bruce can’t keep anyone safe from the man, not really.   
  
He doesn’t need the man anymore. A good thing; since Bruce would never welcome him back now. Strange how Bruce was willing to keep him close even when he’d been just a killer, but now that he’s a meta he’ll never be welcome in his own city again.

\--

Jason takes a kind of perverse pride in the way people choke on their tongues when they see him in costume for the first time. He didn’t have to work for the body he has, but he did for the one it’s modeled on; and he’s damn proud of it.  
  
The laugh that he gets from Donna when she first sees him in his own version of Wonder Woman costume would make the whole thing worth it even if nobody ever reacted to it again.  
  
“Aren’t you a little _old_ to be Wonder _Boy?”_ She snarks as he twirls like a bride trying on dresses. “Or is the name just an unsubtle jibe at your former mentor and brother?”  
  
He cackles and slings an arm over her shoulders to pull her in for a sideways hug because _this is why she’s his favorite._ “Got it in one, sister dearest. Little Dickie’s gonna pout all the way home.”

\--

Actually _working_ with Diana is _awesome_. It’s like the first time he went out in the Robin suit all over again; getting to kick ass and take names. They’re not dealing with any of Wonder Woman’s rogues gallery; just average thugs and rapists and dealers. Chatting with the working girls while Diana’s busy with the police reminds him of being thirteen and on top of the world again.  
  
Paris doesn’t have the tall buildings for flying the way the bats do, but it also doesn’t have Batman and a mess of psychos in costumes, so he guesses it evens out.   
  
Plus, using magic instead of a mask or helmet to conceal his identity is _so much easier. _ Diana doesn’t bother, but Jason’s pretty sure he’s got _way_ more crazies ready to chase after him, despite being literal _thousands_ of years younger than her. He’d rather they stay in Gotham.

\--

Running into Talia is an inevitability that Jason’s been prepared for ever since he first showed his face in the World of Men. Her ninja try to spirit him away as he’s walking back to Diana’s apartment from work. Try being the operative word; because their attempt is truly _laughable_. Tranq darts bounce off his skin; their strikes barely bruise. He throws the one that tries to force a hood over his head into the Seine.   
  
Talia, when she bothers to show herself, is all mind games and false maternal words. _Come back with me and we shall find a way to make him pay,_ she offers. _He has failed you twice_, she croons in his ear. _The current Robin staid his hand from the Joker’s throat,_ she hisses.  
  
And Jason honestly has no idea how he ever bought even a fraction of what she’s selling. Even with the Pit madness he should have been able to see it. It’s not about him, it’s about _Bruce_. About cutting his anchors and driving him back to Talia’s arms. Jason was a tool in her hands. It would be funny if he hadn’t beat the _snot_ out of the current Robin, framed Nightwing for murder, made Bruce send his son off to prison to be murdered again.   
  
Jason’s read the files. He knows that Tim’s already surpassed Bruce’s intelligence in the opinion of most of the Justice League. He imagines it’s the same for the League of Shadows. He wonders if that were the case when he was fresh out of the Pit and under Talia’s thumb; whether the target she painted on Tim’s back was to cut Bruce off from his support or to remove the competition for Ra’s attention.   
  
He doesn’t have to wonder anymore. He doesn’t have his own Lasso of Truth, but he _does_ have a piece of Diana’s. Just enough to wrap around a finger.   
  
He doesn’t use it. As much as she used him, Talia still gave him his second life back. She can keep her secrets. Tim could probably dance circles around her.  
  
He lets her talk for another few minutes before he interrupts.  
  
“You lost this pawn long ago, Talia. Thanks for the second life.”  
  
He doesn’t even bother to watch her over his shoulder as he walks away. A few muttered words masks him from even the most watchful ninja for the rest of the walk home.

\--

Donna brings Cassie along with her when she visits in the Spring. Jason knows who she is; knows she’s a friend of Tim’s. He doesn’t know if she knows who _he_ is; Bruce being the paranoid motherfucker that he is. Not that he thinks Bruce knows he’s alive. He’d probably have showed up to growl at him impotently by now.

\--

After Cassie it’s like the floodgates open and suddenly it’s like he can’t take two steps without tripping over baby superheroes. Cassie and Connor drag him out to the embankment to treat them to lunch. Cissie dares him to shoot an apple of the top of the Eiffel Tower (he manages. _Eventually)._ Garth tries to rope him into liberating the fish from _L’Aquarium de Paris_. Raven makes him take her to the opera. Cyborg trash-talks his computer setup for an hour before leaving and reappearing the next weekend with an entirely new one.   
  
Bart shows up with an honest-to-god _handgun_ and asks if Jason will help him practice dodging bullets.  
  
Robin is suspiciously absent.  
  
Jason hears a lot about Robin. Cyborg praises his skill with both code and hardware while he sets Jason up with more monitors than he knows what to do with. Raven mentions that Robin took her to see _Faust_ because he thought it would amuse her. Garth whines about Robin not letting him jailbreak aquaria _either_ (thus increasing Jason’s respect for his successor because Garth’s puppy-eyes are _strong)._ Cissie mentions Robin getting her a job at W.E. so she can go to the Olympics. Connor actually brings one of Ma Kent’s pies with him because Robin apparently told him they could be used to bribe kings and presidents.  
  
When Jason categorically refuses to do anything with the proffered handgun but disassemble it Bart complains that Robin won’t help him practice either.

\--

Jason keeps a copy of his old Red Hood costume in his closet that Diana doesn’t even pretend not to notice. If her son feels he needs the reminder of who he was, then who is she to deny him?  
  
The bullets are rubber this time.  
  
The only part of it that she sees with any regularity is the helmet. Diana feels a certain smug satisfaction when Jason readily explains its inner workings to her. _This_, she thinks, i_s something Batman can never have honestly._   
  
Jason’s old helmet self-destructed before Bruce could get is hands on it.   
  
His offer to make her a war helm with some of its more useful features is tempting.

\--

He goes to Gotham in the incessant chilly rains of late April to place two wreaths in two cemeteries. One of pink carnations and white lilies on the grave of one Catherine Todd in Bristol; and one of yellow marigolds, red carnations, and green ivy on the grave of one Todd Peters in Arkham.  
  
Oracle is probably watching; but he doesn’t care.  
  
He has a few more stops to make before he leaves.

\--

He finds Ivy in Robinson park, just as expected.   
  
She’s bent over and crooning something to the roses when he steps into her domain. He remembers being eleven and watching her do the same to the roses in Alfred’s favorite part of the gardens while Bruce was out on patrol.   
  
He’s glad he never encountered her as the Red Hood. He’s never really had any personal beef with Ivy.   
  
“Hey Pam.”  
  
“Seedling.” Her voice is even, wary. He doesn’t blame her.  
  
“I missed you.” She’s not expecting that. He wasn’t expecting it either, really, but it’s true.  
  
A cautious smile spreads over her lips. “While I can’t say I miss getting arrested, the new Robin doesn’t have quite your sense of humor.” She gets to he feet, but doesn’t immediately turn on the seductive charm that she tries with Batman or the police; a nod to way back when he was a homeless kid taking shelter in her greenhouses. “Does he still use my formula on the roses?”  
  
Jason huffs a laugh because he remembers sitting next to Pam on the curb while they waited for the GCPD to turn up and asking her if there was a way to make roses grow as beautiful as hers always did without her powers.   
  
“Yeah.” Alfred’s roses are still the talk of the Garden Society. He knows because not even two deaths and the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean can keep him from checking in on his grandfather. 

\--

“You moving back here soon, Seedling?” She asks a while later.   
  
Jason dusts the loamy soil from his hands to give him time to put his answer together.  
  
“I don’t think so, Pam.” And this is the part he’s been both dreading and needing. “I’m not his son anymore. I’m not welcome.”  
  
She snorts at that. “I know who your new mamma is, Seedling. He couldn’t keep you out if he tried.”  
  
“Yeah.” His throat is tight. “But who’s he gonna take it out on if it can’t be me, huh? The Joker? Two-Face? You? _Robin?”_ He shakes his head. “The Joker I could care less about, but the rest of you?”  
  
Her eyes are sad, but it’s obvious she understands. That she remembers how _brutal_ Batman got after he died the first time.   
  
“So this is you saying goodbye?”  
  
“Not forever.” _God not forever. Nothing could keep him from coming to visit._ “No. It’s me sayin’ that I’m gonna miss you, Pam. Gotham ain’t _mine_ anymore.” There are tears in the corners of his eyes because this truth _hurts;_ so much more than Bruce’s rejection or Sheila’s betrayal. “One prince wants me dead, and the other wants me gone and they always get their way in the end.”

\--

Pam gives him a hug when they part ways. She couldn’t before; would have poisoned him the moment they touched.   
  
You can’t poison clay.  
  
He makes two more stops. Selina presses a thin golden circlet into his hands and says it’ll look goon in his (now much curlier) hair. Harley sobs theatrically but promises to keep up her therapy. He’s standing on the sidewalk outside her apartment building when the prickling on the back of his neck tells him it’s time to go.   
  
He waits instead.

\--

Jason makes sure he’s got his piece of the Lasso of Truth wound around his finger before he turns to face whichever bat is behind him.  
  
Robin swallows hard when he spots Jason’s face, but stands his ground. Jason wonders if the kid is just suicidal or whether he’s somehow even worse at self-preservation the Bruce. He holds his hands up to show they’re empty except for the length of rope around his right ring finger.  
  
“Hey kid. Sorry to interrupt your night. Was about to head out, unless you wanna talk?”  
  
The kid’s face doesn’t give away anything. He’s almost better than _Bruce_ at playing the statue.  
  
Jason rolls his eyes and wiggles the hand with the Lasso on it at the kid. “I’m not lyin’, kid.  
  
Slowly, Robin relaxes his stance, collapsing his bo staff and stowing it in his belt, eyes never straying from where Jason stands on the sidewalk.  
  
“Who are you?” The kid asks, “And what’re you doing in Gotham?” and gets another eye roll because _seriously?_  
  
“Jason Todd,” he answers, resisting the urge to smile when the spell hiding his identity prevents the kid from remembering it properly. “And I came by to leave some flowers for my mamma and a kid the Joker murdered last year,” he answers; noticing the way the kid’s eyes flick to the lasso around his finger as it glows gold with his words. “And to check in on Ivy, Cat, and Harley because B never does before whatever’s eatin’ ‘em gets big enough to blow up in his face.”  
  
The kid raises his eyebrows at that; mutters something to himself (and probably Oracle) about checking up on the Sirens later. Jason snorts at the codename.   
  
“You obviously knew I was tailing you, so why wait for me instead of just flying away?”  
  
Jason’s gonna get a headache from how often he’s rolled his eyes tonight. “Jesus kid, you’re a suspicious little fucker, aren’t ya? Figured I might as well ask permission for my next visit, seeing how butt-hurt daddy Bats gets about metas in his city. Don’t wanna get my mamma on his shit list if I can help it, ya know?”  
  
The kid frowns at that, and types something into the slick-looking computer he’s got built into his wrist. “I’ll pass your request along. We’ll contact you if your request is approved.” He tilts his head inquisitively, amusingly bird-like.  
  
“Why do you want to visit Gotham anyway? We have no prior record of the Sirens communicating with you.”  
  
“I belonged here, once,” Jason answers. Not ‘_I was born here,_’ because apparently that’s not the truth anymore according to the Lasso. He’s experimented. It won’t let him say ‘_I’m a Gothamite,_’ either. “I knew Pam and Kat and Harley back then. Wanted to let them know why I’m not gonna be around as much anymore.”  
  
The kid takes a moment to think about that before he asks his next question.  
  
“If we go somewhere more secure would you be willing to drop your masking spell?”

\--

Tim is a little surprised by how easily Wonder Boy agrees. The guy seems friendly enough for a six-foot-six dude in biker pants and a leather jacket.  
  
Tim declines the offered flight, though.   
  
He takes Wonder Boy to one of Red Hood’s old safe-houses, one that he doesn’t think even Bruce knows about yet. He warns Oracle that he’s turning off his trackers for a bit so Bruce won’t panic, but leaves his cameras and mics alone. Wonder Boy didn’t ask him _not_ to record their conversation.  
  
The guy laughs under his breath as he slips through the window after Tim. “Brings back memories,” he offers when Tim raises an eyebrow at him.  
  
Tim remains standing while Wonder Boy collapses back onto the moth-eaten couch. “The spell?” He prompts after a moment’s silence.  
  
Wonder Boy chuckles, the piece of glowing string that _has_ to be part of Wonder Woman’s Lasso of Truth still wrapped around his finger. “So impatient, Baby Bird. All right, here goes.”  
  
Wonder Boy mutters something in archaic Greek under his breath and passes his hands dramatically over his face.  
  
Tim jolts like he’s been electrocuted.  
  
It’s _Jason_.  
  
Tim’s read every line of his file more times than he can count. Gave one of his best photos of Jason in the Robin suit to Kyle Rayner to use as a reference for the portrait of Jason that now hangs in the cave in place of the display case that used to reside there.   
  
Jason’s been dead for five years.  
  
Or has he been? Tim’s eyes widen under his domino as he remembers the comment Jason threw out not thirty seconds ago; the way he didn’t even have to look behind him at the couch before he flopped down on it.   
  
He wonders what Bruce would say if Tim asked him if Jason had been the Red Hood.  
  
_‘A kid the Joker murdered last year,’_ Jason had said. _Did he leave flowers on his own grave?_  
  
“Jason.”  
  
Jason grins at him. “Robin. You put it all together already? Know who I was?”  
  
Tim nods. “The Red Hood. Batman said the Joker killed you in prison.”  
  
Jason snorts, but the tightness in his eyes betrays his attempt at humor. “That he did, baby bird. Stuck an M16 right in my face and blew it right the fuck off.” Jason suddenly grins. “Probably saved your life doin’ it too. Bet the fucker’d hate knowin’ that. I would’a done the same thing to you if I’d ever got out.”  
  
He says it so easily, like it happened to someone else, like he’s _happy_ about it.   
  
“Would’a been a damn waste, kid. You know how many of the people that hurt me back then you piss of just by _breathin’?”_ He laughs.   
  
Tim’s had dreams about that laugh. It’s the one he was _dying_ to capture on film when he was eleven and scrambling up fire escapes after Batman.   
  
“You’re good at what you do, kid,” Jason points a finger at him. “Don’t let anyone tell ya’ different.

\--

Tim watches Jason kick off the roof of the building and into the air, tracks his flight upwards until he’s lost in the drifting curtains of Gotham’s smoggy night sky.   
  
_“So who is he?” _ Oracle asks, _“I did some digging, but beyond his status as one of Themyscira’s representatives there really isn’t much out there. The fingerprints on file don’t match with those of any known Gotham expats.”_  
  
“You’re not going to believe it, O,” Tim says as he fires off his grapple gun and starts swinging in the direction of the watchtower. “I’m headed your way. This is too sensitive for coms.”

\--

Barbara Gordon remembers with perfect clarity what it was like to sit in her wheelchair graveside while Jason’s coffin was lowered into his grave. The smell of the fresh and sodden earth, the taste of the wine from the service, Dick’s absence, Bruce _crying_, the grainy texture of the Gotham loam between her fingers when it had been her turn to throw a handful into the grave.  
  
She remembers his second burial; again in her wheelchair, but alone this time. Not even her father had come to watch Jason return to the earth. That memory is so much more painful because it felt so _final_. So _bleak_. Grey skies, grey concrete walls with grey razor-wire at the top. Guards in grey uniforms. No flowers except for the roses she’d taken from Alfred’s garden. No mourners except herself. The chaplain doesn’t even bother to conceal his boredom or desire to be inside out of the rain.   
  
It had ripped her open inside in a way not even the Joker’s bullets could have.   
  
Tim’s report turns her world on its head again.  
  
As soon as she leaves she’s booking a ticket to Paris. And sending a message to Alfred forbidding him from letting Bruce or Dick do the same.

\--

Jason feels bad about skipping out on a visit to Alfred, but it’s time to go. Gotham isn’t his anymore. He knows this. A perk of having access to the Lasso of Truth is knowing the truth about himself. Sure, the truths he learns are changeable; but the certainty makes him feel secure in a way that no promise Bruce had ever made him had.  
  
Diana’s jet is parked on the apron at Dulles. She’s got business with the league (which is a good part of the reason he chose tonight for his trip to Gotham. Batman’s not _there)._ He lets himself in and goes straight to his room because he’s tired; dealing with his weird second life is always exhausting.   
  
He doesn’t wake when Diana returns, barely stirring when her fingers comb through his hair before she retires herself.

\--

“I don’t get it, commissioner. Why’d Wonder Woman’s sidekick leave flowers for _him?_ I mean, how would they even have known each other?”  
  
A moment of cigarette-and-coffee-scented silence.  
  
“She knew the guy, I think. When he was younger. Before he was Red Hood, I mean.”  
  
Another pause.  
  
“Anyone check on the Joker this evening?”  
  
“Last check in was an hour ago. Sedated in his cell.”  
  
“Have them double check.”

\--

There’s something on the concrete outside the Joker’s cell. Half-obscured in the darkness of the cell block.  
  
The man can see it even through his drug-induced haze, although the details are as fuzzy as the corners of his mind. It looks kind of like an egg if eggs had eyes.  
  
He wonders if he can figure out a way to fit eggs with eyes into his next ploy for Batman. He probably has time. It’s another two weeks until his goons are supposed to break him out again.  
  
The light in the hallway snaps on suddenly, and there are frantic voices shouting somewhere in the distance. The Joker barely notices them.  
  
He recognizes this egg. An egg he’d pushed off the wall twice so far, and all the kings horses and all the kings men only ever bothered to put him in time-out for being naughty.   
  
Of course, last time he’d pushed said egg off the wall with a 5.56 between the eyes, but that’s beside the point.  
  
Batsy won’t play with him while he’s in time-out. But who _else_ could possibly have left this egg for him?  
  
He’ll have to make a point to tell them how _thoughtful_ a gift it was when he gets out.

\--

One of the best things about the invisible jet is that Diana flies the thing herself. No civilians to hide from except the ground crew; and they know better than to question diplomats.  
  
The best thing is that it’s faster and stealthier than the bat plane, but looks normal enough for Diana to use as a civilian. If Jason weren’t actively avoiding Bruce he might gloat over how the toys his new mom gives him are way cooler than Bruce’s.  
  
(Except the Batmobile. But that doesn’t count because Bruce never let him drive it).

\--

Jason isn’t surprised that it takes less than a week for one of the bats to show up on Diana’s doorstep. He’s contemplated returning to Themyscira for a bit just to frustrate them, but ultimately decides that’ll just bring the big man himself down on his head faster.  
  
He _is_ surprised that it’s Babs. 

\--

She hugs him so hard it lifts her out of her chair, then smacks him around the ear for not dropping by. He shrugs because how was he supposed to know where to find her?  
  
He’s a meta, not omniscient.  
  
She smacks him again for breaking into Arkham to spook the Joker; and that he _is_ sorry for because it probably wasn’t the best idea.   
  
She laughs when he tells her that it’s a dummy helmet he bought in a costume shop to piss Bruce off. Tells him she’s proud of how good he’s gotten at making shit on his own.  
  
Jason takes a picture of Diana holding Babs in her wheelchair high over her head, carefully positioned so it looks like Babs is plucking the flag off the top of the Eiffel Tower. Barbara insists they have lunch by the Seine. Diana gets attacked by pigeons while they wait for a table. It’s a grand day out all ‘round.

\--

“Bruce is probably going to loose his mind over this, but there’s no reason why you can’t just visit whenever you want.” Babs tells him that evening over a glass of champagne at the Georges Cinq. “I mean, as long as you don’t do any ‘work’ while you’re in town he doesn’t _really_ have a leg to stand on. Clark’s in and out for his _actual_ job all the time.”  
  
Jason snorts. Clark Kent is an _entirely_ different kettle of fish, although he supposes her argument would stand up in a court of law. “Because we all know Bruce is _entirely_ rational when it comes to rules, don’t we.”  
  
She rolls her eyes at him, like he’s still fourteen and drawing ridiculous connections between plot points in _Persuasion_ just to be a little shit. “He has no way to connect you to Red Hood’s activities in a way that would satisfy dad. Your fingerprints and DNA don’t match his, and the physical resemblance isn’t enough to satisfy a judge; besides which,” she points her fork at him for emphasis, “your diplomatic immunity means the police can’t touch you. Your mom’s a founding member of the Justice League. And the Titans like you.”  
  
Jason swallows dryly at the vehemence of her words. He’s always known Babs didn’t ascribe to the same black-and-white mentality as Bruce. He’d never expected her to actually take Jason’s side against Batman’s. 

\--

Barbara watches the emotions play across Jason’t features across the table and hates Bruce a bit for letting this boy grow up so confident and yet so _unsure_ at the same time. For not sending Jason to the Watchtower rather than Arkham for treatment. For allowing Jason’s second murder.   
  
She also _burns_ with the need to _fix_ it. To get Bruce and Jason to sit down in a room and _make up_, somehow.  
  
It hurts a bit that she doesn’t think it’s going to be possible.

\--

Her son is quiet when he returns from his dinner with Barbara. Thoughtful-quiet, but also sad-quiet.  
  
(Diana has only seen him regretful-quiet a handful of times; and never in reference to the people he killed as the Red Hood. He carries no regret for those deaths, and she thinks _this_ is why Bruce could not accept him).  
  
_“À quoi penses-tu, mon fils?”_ She asks when he sits next to her on the sofa. No one is listening, but Diana has found that sometimes her son’s different moods are easier for him to talk through in languages that fit the tone. English for everyday things. Greek for anger. Spanish for passion and excitement. Russian or German for stubbornness. Arabic for derisiveness (and sometimes, rarely, when he speaks of the limbo between his first and second lives). French is for melancholy; the softer flowing vowels and blended consonants smoothing over the sharp-jagged edges of the holes others have left in him.  
  
_“Elle a dit qu'il avait tort.”_ He murmurs when he’s had a moment to gather his thoughts. _“Elle est en colère contre lui.” _  
  
_Good_, Diana thinks. _She should be angry. He was like her brother, once._ She reaches out to take her son’s hand in her own, squeezing gently. Some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders.  
  
_“Je ne peux pas dire que je ne regrette rien,”_ Her son’s eyes are dry, but shine as if they might not remain so, _“Mais je ne regrette pas les choses qui nous ont brisés. Je souhaite que nous pourrions être fixés.”_  
  
_“Moi aussi, mon fils.”_

_\--_

“You spoke with Wonder Boy,” Batman doesn’t look up from the report he’s typing up as Tim comes in from his patrol.  
  
Tim is surprised it’s taken Bruce so long to bring it up. It’s been _days_ since his encounter with Jason. He wrote it up and everything; made sure to link it up to the magic-obscured footage ripped from Oracle’s cameras. He’d even flagged Jason’s visitation request so Bruce would see it right away. Something has to be up.  
  
“Yeah. He was here on Saturday. I wrote it up.” _Didn’t you read it?_  
  
Bruce tuns to regard him critically, and the bottom drops out of Tim’s stomach. _ Oh no._  
  
“Your report for Saturday is missing from the files.” Bruce turns back to the screen and highlights the empty row in the system where Tim definitely filed his report on Saturday. _What did you do, Babs?_  
  
“Do you want a verbal summary before I write it again?” Tim asks; quickly going over the details in his head to make sure they’re still there. It’s entirely likely Babs just hid it temporarily. She’s more than capable of doing it. Tim could probably find it even if Bruce can’t, but Bruce isn’t going to want to wait for the details.  
  
“I’ll write it up from your summary, Tim,” _Names_. _ Okay, so he’s not mad._ “Whenever you’re ready.”  
  
Tim clears his throat and begins._  
_

_\--_

R: B noticed my report for Saturday was missing.  
  
O: Sorry R. Didn’t mean to throw you under the bus. He ask about WB?  
  
R: Yeah. Gave him a summary but no name. Says request to visit has been ‘noted.’  
  
O: Ugh, he’s being an ass. WB was trying to be polite.  
  
R: At least he’s letting me handle the Sirens’ issues. He’ll probably be all over WW with info requests, though.  
  
O: And WW has had it up to her tiara with B already.  
  
R: Remind me to start archiving the watchtower footage. Their throw-down is going to be epic.

\--

Babs smiles and hugs him tight when he drops her of at Charles de Gaule airport.  
  
“B’s being an ass about your visit; I need to get back and do damage control,” she says as he slings her bag up onto the check-in scale. “Tim says he’s got your mama’s stuff taken care of.”  
  
He smiles. “Seems like a good kid.”  
  
That gets him a laugh.   
  
“You should tell him sometime. Somewhere where I can record his reaction.”  
  
“What? Why?”

\--

“Bring your new associate with you for interview next time, Diana,” Bruce says as they’re heading to the zeta tubes after the next League meeting. “It’s past time he was properly vetted.”  
  
Diana stops in her tracks, turns around, and gives him a sharp poke in the center of his chest plate before Bruce can dodge out of her way.  
  
“Are you _questioning_ the word of myself and my mother?” She snaps as Clark drifts over to try and mediate. “Are statements of allegiance and intent given under the Lasso of Truth not _sufficient_ to satisfy _your_ paranoia?”  
  
“The League-“  
  
“Does not share your concerns on the matter, or else you would have addressed this while we were in session.” She leans down to glare directly into the lenses of his cowl. “He is my _son_, not one of your child soldiers. He is the first prince of Themyscira; crafted by my mother’s own hand at my request; of the same clay from which she shaped me.”  
  
Clark is clutching his pearls like a society matron, and others have stopped to witness their confrontation. Diana does not care. Let them see how _she_ loves her son.  
  
“If he wishes to continue to visit my city-“  
  
She snorts derisively. “Then he does so under the protection of the diplomatic immunity granted to him as an envoy of Themyscira. He knows your rules, knows the possible consequences of interference, and has given his word not to interfere unless called upon explicitly.   
  
“You can’t-“ It is obvious he is frustrated by her constant interruptions; but she has put up with his veiled distrust and paranoia for years. He can satisfy himself with what she is willing to give for once.  
  
“No,” she states. “You have no power over how I choose to raise my son. One he once called his mother long ago is buried in Gotham. I will not force my son to abandon her the way _you_ abandoned _your_ son.”  
  
Bruce hisses at that, and Clark finally sees fit to intervene.  
  
“All right you two, that’s enough.” Diana takes a step back, allowing Clark to insert himself between her and Bruce. She is angry, but not so angry that she would allow the friendship she has built with these men to be threatened.  
  
Bruce is more reluctant to back down; but she knows that any verbal attack he launches at this point will be retaliation for prodding at chinks in his armor, and not the truth of his heart. Clark, for all that she still cannot fathom his reaction to his _own_ son, knows them both well enough to see both of these truths and defend them from each other.  
  
“You said his mother was from Gotham,” Bruce is trying to make her reveal details, but her son knows him well, and she is prepared to throw his prying back in his face.  
  
“My son _told_ this to your protege,” she clarifies. “And it is the truth.” She reaches down and grasps the Lasso in her hand. “It is also the truth that he was crafted from the clays of Themyscira by Queen Hippolyta to be my son.” She lets go before Bruce can speak again. “They are both truths. A conundrum worthy of the World’s Greatest Detective, is it not?”  
  
She turns on her heel and resumes her exit.   
  
“We have been friends for many years, Bruce,” she calls as she keys her destination into the console. “I have allowed you many secrets and half-truths. Perhaps it is time for you to allow _me_ something.”

\--

Bruce steps out of the Zeta tube in the bat cave and immediately begins removing his suit.  
  
Fifteen minutes later he is dressed in a nondescript grey suit and sliding into the driver’s seat of an equally inconspicuous grey Mercedes.  
  
The drive to Bristol Cemetery is a short one.  
  
Jason’s empty grave lies on the far side of the cemetery next to his mother’s occupied one. He has one of Alfred’s best roses in hand to leave there when he is finished, but for now he makes his way to an older quarter of the burial grounds, where Tim’s report indicated Wonder Boy had visited the grave of a woman who had been his mother.  
  
Bruce has never been to Jason’s final resting place on Arkham island. Batman has; as he has for all the rogues who have died while in Arkham’s care. But never Bruce.  
  
He casts thoughts of Jason aside and scans the rows of neat headstones for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing in the first nine rows that he passes, but the tenth catches his eye; something about it both familiar and out of place. A large wreath laid out on a grave that must be nearly fifteen years old given the location in the cemetery. He turns down the row to investigate.  
  
Something about the progression of the headstones as he walks by them is achingly familiar. The wreath, too, when he looks at it. Pink carnations and lilies. A memory just out of reach.  
  
The name on the gravestone makes him loose his grip on the roses. They tumble from his hands onto the neatly-mown grass at his feet.  
  
Catherine Todd.  
  
He remembers now. A young Jason dwarfed by the largest wreath he could actually fit in the car. Pink carnations and lilies, his mother’s favorites that he’d saved to buy for her birthday every year, even when she was too deep in her addiction to notice. Jason telling him about the years between when he’d saved for weeks so he’d be able to take the bus all the way across the city to Bristol to deliver the meagre bouquet selling tires could afford him.  
  
A truth settles cold and heavy in the pit of his stomach, even though he knows it’s impossible.   
  
He stoops to gather his roses from the ground.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> SORRY I FORGOT TO INCLUDE THE FRENCH TRANSLATION:
> 
> À quoi penses-tu, mon fils? — What are you thinking, my son?
> 
> Elle a dit qu'il avait tort. — She said he was wrong.
> 
> Elle est en colère contre lui. — She is angry with him.
> 
> Je ne peux pas dire que je ne regrette rien, Mais je ne regrette pas les choses qui nous ont brisés. Je souhaite que nous pourrions être fixés. — I can’t say I regret nothing, but I don’t regret the things that broke us. I wish we could be fixed.
> 
> Moi aussi, mon fils. — Me too, my son.


End file.
